Growing up in the 1970s, our household was shaped by the values and routines of the time. Our Mother, Margaret, was a woman of simple tastes—her hair always neatly pinned back, her dresses plain but spotless, and her shoes practical. She moved with quiet purpose, her posture upright and her gaze unwavering, giving off an air of calm authority. She stood for no nonsense, her lips often pressed into a determined line when rules were broken, but there was always a softness in her eyes that showed she cared deeply for us. Margaret was a strong believer in ‘smacked bottoms’—a phrase everyone used back then instead of spankings—for any kind of misbehaviour. She was a woman who stood for no nonsense, firm but always fair, and her approach to discipline was clear and unwavering, especially when it came to me. The air in our home was often filled with the scent of home-cooked meals and the distant sounds of a radio playing, but beneath it all was an unspoken understanding that rules were to be followed.
I had regularly been turned over her knee, feeling the sting of discipline, while my younger sister Sandra seemed to glide through childhood untouched by such punishments. It was a source of constant bewilderment and, if I’m honest, a growing sense of injustice. Sandra, with her innocent smile and quick wit, never once received even a quick slap, no matter how mischievous she became.
It wasn’t as if Sandra was a little angel either. She could be just as cheeky and rebellious as any child, and naturally, I came to quite resent the difference in how we were treated. After each time my backside was tanned, I would protest, sometimes through tears, that Sandra never got similar treatment when she was naughty. My complaints, however, were usually met with another sharp smack for being insolent, leaving me to stew in my frustration while Sandra looked on, wide-eyed and silent.
Then, not long after Sandra’s birthday, everything changed. The day had started like any other, but Sandra was in a particularly defiant mood. She talked back at Mother, rolled her eyes, and at lunchtime, she simply played with her food, pushing peas around her plate instead of eating. Even after the meal, she continued to complain and pout, her little doll clutched tightly in her arms as we played. I always thought Sandra was spoiled because she was younger than me—she seemed to get all the attention and never got her bottom smacked, no matter what she did. It often felt unfair, as if she could get away with anything just because she was the youngest. I sat at the cleared table, carefully gluing pieces of my model aeroplane, trying to ignore the tension building in the room.
Something must have snapped inside Mother’s head because, in a sudden burst of frustration, she let out an almighty yell. Before I could even process what was happening, she scooped Sandra up, tucked her firmly under her arm, and delivered a swift, resounding swat to the seat of her dress. The sharp crack echoed through the room, and Sandra’s eyes widened in shock, her usual composure shattered in an instant. Mother’s hand was firm and unyielding, and the force of the smack left no doubt that she meant business. Sandra kicked her legs and let out a startled yelp, her face turning red as the reality of what was happening sank in.
At this stage, all I could think of was how typical it was that, even now, Sandra wasn’t getting it like I did. But it soon became clear this was only the beginning. Mother sat down heavily on the sofa, her face set with determination, and pulled the now-screaming Sandra towards her. With practiced movements, she positioned Sandra across her lap, holding her firmly in place. The room seemed to hold its breath as Mother raised her hand again, her palm hovering for a moment before coming down with another crisp smack. Sandra’s cries grew louder, her little fists pounding against the cushions as she tried to squirm away, but Mother’s grip was unbreakable.
Mother took hold of Sandra’s hands, holding them firmly in her own, and looked her squarely in the eye. Her voice was low but powerful as she began to deliver the biggest telling-off Sandra had ever received. Each word seemed to weigh heavily in the air, and Sandra’s defiance melted away, replaced by tears and trembling lips. Mother’s lecture was relentless, her tone unwavering as she explained exactly why Sandra was being punished. All the while, Sandra’s sobs filled the room, her body tense with anticipation for what was still to come.
By now, I knew exactly what was coming. With me, Mother would always lecture me with my hands held like that until I had calmed down enough to be efficiently smacked. Sure enough, Sandra’s sobs gradually quieted, though she still sniffled and whimpered. Mother, satisfied that her message had sunk in, decided it was time to proceed. She adjusted Sandra’s position, making sure she was securely over her lap, and raised her hand once more. The next series of smacks were delivered with measured force, each one landing squarely and leaving Sandra wailing in distress.
Watching from the table, I saw Sandra’s face twist in fear as Mother put her firmly over her lap. She’d seen too many of my smacked bottoms not to know exactly what was coming and just how much it would hurt. Mother’s hand rose and fell in a steady rhythm, each smack punctuated by Sandra’s cries and the sharp sound echoing through the room. The anticipation was almost worse than the punishment itself, and I felt a strange mix of sympathy and vindication as Sandra kicked and pleaded for it to stop.
I literally did not know where to look as Mother went to work. The sound of each smack echoed in the room, and I felt all sorts of conflicting feelings—guilt, relief, and, if I’m honest, a little satisfaction that Sandra was finally experiencing what I had endured so many times. Mother’s discipline was swift and firm, her hand never hesitating as she delivered a final round of smacks that left Sandra sobbing and breathless. When it was finally over, Sandra lay limp across Mother’s lap, her cheeks wet with tears and her pride thoroughly wounded.
Finally, it was over. Sandra was in floods of tears, her cheeks flushed and her pride wounded. Like me, she was put in the corner, told to think about what she’d done. As I watched her stand there, sniffling and rubbing her eyes, I realised that, for the first time, Sandra truly understood what it meant to cross the line in our household. The lesson was harsh, but it was one we would both remember.
